Саймон Моуэр - Prague Spring

‘James Bond fights SMERSH, and there is such a thing as SMERSH. Smert shpionam , death to spies. In Czech we say smrt špionů .’

‘Well, this lady sure knows her stuff. You’d better watch your back, Sam. Hey, and we even have Shirley Temple, would you believe it?’

‘Shirley Temple’s in a war film?’ Conversations with Harry lurched from the improbable to the unbelievable and back again within a couple of sentences.

‘No, she’s here for some convention or other. Probably singing “The Good Ship Lollipop” to a plenary session. I’m surprised she didn’t get an invite to this party – she has political ambitions, apparently. Wants to be a senator, wants to be president. Film star for president? Who the hell knows? Weirder things have happened. I mean, here we are meant to be representing the free West and our main concerns when the balloon goes up will be what the hell to do with half of Hollywood.’

A disturbance at the entrance announced the arrival of the hosts. People scurried to see. Svoboda came first, white-haired and red-faced, then Dubček, tall and awkward, like a heron in a stream worried about fish. Beside him was the dapper figure of Nicolae Ceaușescu. The trio came though the press of enthusiastic guests, smiling and nodding, pausing briefly for Dubček to exchange words with someone. In the background, observing all through horn-rimmed spectacles, was the Soviet ambassador Chervonenko.

A member of the ministry staff came over. ‘Mr Samuel Wareham,’ he said, ‘I am so sorry that Mr Whittaker could not be present but it is good to bump into you again. That is the right expression, isn’t it? To bump into someone?’

‘It certainly is.’

‘And this lovely lady is…?’

‘Miss Lenka Konečková.’

‘Ah, yes. I know about Miss Konečková.’

Lenka’s embryo smile died. ‘You know about me? What does that mean, exactly?’

The man pondered her question for a moment. All around him there was the press of guests, reaching for the buffet. ‘I have read some of your articles, of course. That student newspaper, what is it called?’

‘ Student .’

‘Ah, yes. Not very imaginative.’

‘The name of the paper or my articles?’

‘Oh no, your articles are very imaginative.’

‘We are all imagining a world where you may speak your mind, aren’t we?’

The man turned to Sam with a wry smile. ‘Your lady friend is very beautiful, Mr Wareham. But she bites. You must keep her on a tight lead.’

‘I’m not on anyone’s lead, thank you.’

Sam took her arm and eased her out of the crush. Lenka’s fury heightened the colour in her cheeks yet turned her eyes glacial. It was a disturbing combination. ‘I don’t think picking a fight with a senior functionary in the interior ministry is the best way of passing the evening,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and find ourselves something to drink.’

‘What is that man’s name?’

‘Kučera. Petr, Patrik? I can’t remember.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘You meet all sorts in my line of work.’

‘What a horrid job.’ She looked round the crowded room as though to get her bearings. ‘Now let’s go and speak to the First Secretary.’

‘The First Secretary? Don’t be daft. They won’t let you near him.’

‘Daft? What is daft?’

‘Silly, stupid.’

‘It is not silly. Or stupid. He is meant to represent the people, is he not? I am the people.’

‘Actually he represents the Communist Party, which is a very different thing.’ But she was already away across the room, pushing amongst the crowd to where the Czechoslovak and Romanian officials were making a little festive scrum. Sam hurried after her. He reached the edge of the group just as she achieved the middle.

‘Comrade Dubček,’ he heard her say. Someone tried to move her back but Dubček put up a hand to stop him. ‘I just wanted to tell you that we are all behind you,’ she said. ‘You are surrounded by all these officials who keep you from mixing with the ordinary people, so I thought you ought to know.’

He smiled benignly on her. ‘And what is your name, miss? You appear to know mine – I feel I ought to know yours.’

She hesitated. She was normally decisive, but this time she did hesitate. And Sam knew exactly what she was going to say before she even uttered a word.

‘I am Lenka Vadinská.’

There was a terrible stillness. The name sounded in the silence like a funeral bell. People shifted away as though leaving space at a graveside. Lenka and the awkward, smiling Dubček were left alone.

‘The daughter of Lukáš Vadinský,’ she added, just to make things clear.

If it had been a common name, a Novák or a Novotný, perhaps, maybe nothing much would have happened. Perhaps Lenka would have been forced to explain, and thus the potency of the name would have been dissipated among the words. But she didn’t have to explain. Vadinský is not a common name and Lukáš Vadinský was beyond any confusion or doubt.

Dubček spread his hands helplessly. ‘He was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened. No one did. I want to ensure that such things will never happen again.’

‘No one doubts your sincerity, Comrade First Secretary. The question is, will the Russians let you?’ She waited for a moment as though for an answer, then turned away. People stood aside and let her through. Behind her there was a sudden outburst of talk, random things said about the splendour of the rooms in which they found themselves, the magnificent Flemish tapestries on the walls, the excellence of the food, the quality of the wine and, of course, the eternal friendship of the Czechoslovak and Romanian peoples. While the Russian ambassador watched impassively.

Sam caught up with her as she reached the door. He grabbed her by the arm. ‘What the devil was that all about?’

‘Did I offend your diplomatic sensibilities?’

‘You treated him as though he were to blame.’

‘He was to blame. They were all to blame. Dubček himself believed in the whole system. He used to think that Stalin was wonderful, the father of all working people.’

‘But he’s a man of goodwill, you know that. He wants things to change.’

She pulled away from him. They went down the stairs into the pillared entrance hall. Uniformed staff watched them go. Outside, where the fleet of diplomatic cars waited, she finally stopped and turned to him. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever used my father’s name. The first time.’ Her expression hesitated between defiance and tears. He put his arms around her. The hard bones of her shoulders seemed suddenly fragile, as though they might snap if he squeezed too hard. ‘All my life I was made to feel ashamed and now I feel proud.’ She blinked tears away, looking directly into his eyes. ‘Will you get into trouble?’

‘For what?’

‘For introducing a subversive into the halls of power.’

He laughed softly, breathing in her scent, that mixture of things that he still couldn’t fathom. ‘The ambassador will probably summon me to his presence and give me a ticking off. Rocking the boat, he’ll warn me about rocking the boat. They don’t like people rocking the boat. Very nautical, the British.’

A policeman came over and told them to move on. The strange thing was, he did it politely, with a smile. That’s what had happened in the last few months. People had learned how to smile, how to be polite, how to be helpful. Service with a snarl, so characteristic of the past, had been given a facelift. They walked along towards the Hrad and then down the hill into the Malá Strana, into the soft glow of gas lamps and the weight of history that pervades the streets of the Little Quarter. That whole ancient part of the city seemed to have its breath held as they went down towards the river and the modest Renaissance building where his flat was.